


The Dove and the Mockingbird

by mysticalglade



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, BDSM, F/M, Fantasy, Friendzone, Loneliness, Loyalty, Mind Manipulation, Oral Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Tension, Smut, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-13 00:56:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9098479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysticalglade/pseuds/mysticalglade
Summary: Exploring a complex sexual relationship between Petyr and Sansa, where both try to manipulate each other through sex and power. Also exploring what it would be like if, due to this, Sansa developed emotional attachment symptoms similar to that of Stockholm Syndrome.





	1. Lemon Cake

 “Tell me where we are,” said Sansa, icy fingers gripping the sides of the rowing boat. Dontos made no effort to reply.

 

The eerie blue mist danced upon her flesh as the boat made silently through the still, murky waters. Sansa thought that escaping the clanging bells of King’s Landing would have loosened the knot in her stomach at least a little, but it only wound itself tighter. Her subconscious mind sent whispers of what lay beyond the mist and she shuddered at the thought. Paddles sliced the water rhythmically as the thwart creaked beneath Sansa’s anxious shuffling.

 

A dark figure soon emerged from amidst the fog, and before she knew it, Dontos was hoisting her up onto the ladder. Sansa fumbled with her lilac skirts as she scrambled up the side of the ship. As she reached her hand out to grab the final rung, a pair of hands hauled her up onto the moonlit deck. There was no firelight, which was understandable.

 

The hands helped her upright and pulled her close. Despite the darkness, she recognised her saviour instantly.

 

“Lord Baelish…” she said in a small voice.

 

“Petyr,” he corrected. After that, Sansa was so flustered by the whole situation that she barely listened to a word he was saying. As Petyr held her close and rambled enthusiastically, it began to dawn on Sansa that Petyr was her only friend. Despite the initial confusion, Sansa had foreseen this event. It all made perfect sense. Who else would have come? Who else would have actually  _cared_?

 

The sound of a crossbow bolt suddenly broke her trance. Sansa glanced down to see the body of Ser Dontos crumpled over the side of the rowing boat.

When she screamed, Petyr grabbed her and placed a cold hand over her mouth. He reminded her that if she wanted to escape then screaming was the least advisable thing to do. He was right, of course. She silently obeyed, but refrained from showing agreement. Sansa questioned the need for murder but tried not to criticise too much after seeing what he was capable of.

 

Leaning in closely, Petyr ushered a quiet explanation for his schemes. The beautiful necklace she had been given had been from him. Inside the beads – poison. For all this time she had revered Ser Dontos as her saviour, though now she realised it had been foolish not to treat such altruism with suspicion. Dontos wanted Petyr’s money, and Petyr wanted _her_.

 

*    *    *

 

Days passed as the ship continued on its path to an unknown destination. Sansa had spent most of her time curled up under the blankets in her cabin, wondering where in Westeros she could be headed, wondering if anywhere was safe, and worrying that Petyr had some sort of ulterior motive. Still wearing the fancy lilac dress she had worn at the wedding, Sansa longed to change into something more comfortable. Petyr evidently had not thought of providing clothes, or talking to her for that matter. He rarely came to visit her cabin, and when she ventured above deck he was often nowhere to be seen. Sansa thought bitterly to herself about how little he must care for her; she thought of all the ridiculous ways he could be wasting his time.

Almost as soon as Sansa began to think ill of him, she found that he was knocking on the cabin door.

 

“My lady,” he said as the door creaked ajar. When he came in he was holding a silver tray of lemon cakes.

 

“I don’t want your lemon cakes,” retorted Sansa, turning her back on him immediately. Petyr’s smile did not quaver at her words - instead he chuckled to himself and placed the lemon cakes on the bed stand. He stood there in silence, calmly waiting for an explanation for her anger. Unfortunately, Sansa was just as stubborn as he was and so stood in equal silence, observing the waves lapping outside the window.

 

“Have I done something to offend you, Sansa?” Petyr asked, his voice full of fabricated concern. When Sansa heard him close the door she began to chew her lip.

 

“You saved me,” acknowledged Sansa, gaze still focused on the waters outside, “But then you leave me here for days, not explaining your plans. You risk your life smuggling me out of King's Landing, and to what end?”

 

She heard the floorboards creak beneath Petyr’s feet as he paced slowly towards her. He came forward until his body was pressed against her back, with his breath tickling her ear.

 

“I’d risk everything to get what I want,” he said, wrapping his slender fingers around her waist. Sansa’s heart was pounding in her chest but she tried her hardest to remain still.

 

“And… what do you want?” Sansa asked nervously. Littlefinger span her around and held her chin so she would look at him.

 

“Everything,” he said bluntly, then before she could reply, placed his lips upon hers. His hands had her pinned against the windowsill. His tongue found its way onto hers. It tasted of the mint he liked to chew.

 

“Lord Baelish!” Sansa said, pulling away, her cheeks glowing rouge.

 

“I _own_ you,” said Petyr, his eyes feverish, wanting more. Sansa sadly noted that he was right. Now that he had saved her she was at his disposal and indebted to him. At the click of a finger he could have her killed if he deemed her too dangerous, or could lock her away for however long he pleased. He was her only friend, and Sansa knew she had no choice but to keep it that way.

 

“You want to take my maidenhead?” she asked, searching desperately within his greyish-green eyes for some sort of feeling, motive – anything. Petyr’s eyes widened at her suggestion.

 

“Of course not, my lady,” he said, “That would be improper.”

 

“Then… why are you here?”

 

“Pleasures can be sought in other ways, Sansa,” he said. Then he released her from his grip and neatly placed himself on her bed. “Are you sure you don’t want a lemon cake?”

 

Sansa stared at the thoughtfully arranged display of treats and remembered how empty her stomach was. In silent obedience, she sat down next to him, making sure to leave a slight gap between the both of them. Littlefinger smiled at her, satisfied that she was playing his game, and gently held a lemon cake to her mouth. As if she were a child, Sansa bit into the lemon cake he was feeding her. It was a rare thing for Sansa not to enjoy lemon cakes, but this time they left a bitter taste in her mouth. That tray was full of lies and deceit.

 

“Good girl,” Petyr said. He held his fingers to her lips and Sansa licked his sticky fingers clean, one by one, as he wanted.

 

“Thank you,” Sansa said. If it was not for the fear of being lonely for days on end again, she would be hoping for him to leave soon. On the contrary, Sansa found herself anxiously waiting for him to ask something else of her.

 

The wooden cabin remained silent for a while, save the calming sound of the ocean and the sea breeze whistling about the ship. Littlefinger’s eyes scanned Sansa’s body; she could tell he liked what he saw. With a gentle hand he touched her fiery locks while the other hand trailed a curious finger down to her breasts. After this brief episode of exploration, he pulled his hands away and placed them back on his knees. To Sansa, this was incredibly frustrating.

 

“I know you want me,” said Sansa, getting tired of the anticipation, “So why do you hesitate?”

 

Petyr laughed.

 

“I’m not hesitating. I came to give you lemon cakes, and now I must return to my duties,” he said, pacing over to the door. Sansa’s stomach began to flood with butterflies as she thought of all the things she could have done wrong. A week ago she would have been repulsed by the idea of making love to this man, but now she was left wondering whether she had somehow put him off his initial desires. For some reason she found herself craving him more than the lemon cakes, and it disgusted her.

 

“I thought you came for pleasure,” said Sansa, not wanting to be alone.

 

“I did,” he replied. It was only then that Sansa noticed the prominent bulge at his crotch. “You just need to be more observant, my lady.”

 

And with that, he turned on his heel and left, leaving Sansa craving something much less sweet.

 

 


	2. Innocence

The ship sailed in agonising silence for the next day or so; it seemed Littlefinger's crew were not the most lively of folk. Sansa longed for a conversation to overhear, to listen to some music, or to be given some needlework to busy herself with. At night she would lie awake confused and angry, wondering when Lord Baelish would next visit her cabin, so she swore to herself that next time she would try harder to make him stay.

 

One evening, Sansa got tired of reading the books in her cabin. The story was dry and the characters were dull. Tossing the hardback onto her rough, woven blanket, Sansa unlatched the door and made her way through the dark, dingy corridors that led to the upper deck ladder. Above deck the sky was painted with peachy pink hues and the the evening sun glowed a deep orange on the horizon. To no surprise the deck was peacefully empty, so Sansa stood and inhaled the gentle ocean breeze. She wondered where in Westeros they could be. If she squinted a coastline could vaguely be seen to the west, but they were sailing alongside it, so that offered no clues.

 

"Sansa," spoke that unmistakable voice. 

 

"Lord Baelish," she said with a brief nod of acknowledgement. This man seemed to be trained in the art of silent walking, as Sansa rarely heard him approach.

 

"I hope you are feeling less resentment towards me today," he said, amused. Sansa took a deep breath of the salty air and prepared to play out the facade she had been planning for their next encounter.

 

"My lord, I apologise for my rudeness the other day. I am grateful for the lemon cakes," she said, taking his hand. For a moment Petyr looked almost surprised when she did this, but he quickly hid the feeling with a smile. To Sansa, the lust in his eyes was clear as day, and she longed confirmation of this, for reassurance of his allegiance. Her life now rested in his palm, yet this man was perhaps the last man in Westeros one would want to trust. Sansa needed to understand his motives, his personality - she wanted to be able to predict the moves he would make in the game, and to have power over those decisions in time.

 

Without hesitation, she pulled him close and slid her hand down to his genitals. Now Petyr really was surprised, and this time, he was unable to hide it. 

 

"Sansa... you mustn't do such things where prying eyes can see," he said, pupils dilated, lips moist, "If it so pleases you we can continue this conversation in my cabin."

 

The cabin Petyr had been living in was on the other end of the ship. He had a few possessions that were neatly stacked inside a chest, and several books strewn over a double bed. There was an annotated map on his desk which he stashed away immediately.

 

"Now, Sansa," he said, perched at his desk, "I presume you must have a few questions about our destination, or my plans, perhaps."

 

He dipped his quill into a black pot of ink and finished signing a letter he had been writing. Closing the door behind her, Sansa cast aside all social conventions and sat boldly on his lap. His pen jolted as she did so, drawing a messy line over a section of neat handwriting. Sansa's eyes scanned the papers on his desk.

 

"Letters from the Vale," Sansa noted aloud. Some were sent by names she recognised. "So that is where we are headed. Why?"

 

"I'm going to marry your aunt Lysa," he said confidently, “You’ll be safe in the Eyrie.”

 

“Lysa?” she asked, rotating on his lap to rest a hand on his chest.

 

“You will understand soon, m’lady,” he said, “All that I ask is that you trust me. In return, I promise that I won’t let any harm come to you.”

 

A pinkish evening light was filtering in through the diamond lattice window panes; it lit up the green in his irises. Sansa studied his eyes for honesty. It was difficult to tell how much his words meant. Sansa wondered what he wanted with her aunt. Being her only ally, she needed Petyr to value her more than anyone else, as in the face of a hard decision, Petyr might have to choose between lives. If the answer was not her every time, how could she ever expect to be safe?

 

“I trust you,” Sansa lied. And with that she placed a kiss on his lips. He did not object. When she pulled away there was a knock at the door.

 

“My lord, we must discuss-”

 

“Not now,” Petyr interrupted. With a sigh he looked up at Sansa and smiled. “Sorry, m’lady. I’m a man of responsibility as you can see.”

 

Concerned that he was about to brush her aside for his duties, Sansa desperately tried to think of something to say. The past few days had not been very eventful though.

 

“I’m sorry for bothering you, it’s just awfully lonely in my cabin,” said Sansa, fishing for sympathy. She looked down at the hem of her skirt, which was stained with filth from the back alleys of Kings Landing.

 

“If I had my supplies I’d sew myself a new dress. You must find me repulsive.”

 

Littlefinger shook his head and slid Sansa off his lap. From inside his wooden chest, he brought out a lavender coloured dress and placed it in her arms.

 

“I purchased this for you before we set sail. You can wear it when you meet your aunt, if you like.”

 

“It’s not from… your brothel… is it?” Sansa asked, running her fingers over the embroidery.

 

Petyr laughed and took a sip of wine from a silver goblet on his desk.

“I’ll have you know my brothel it is a high-class establishment. The Lannisters themselves have paid their visits,” he said, slightly offended but mostly amused. “But no, I purchased it elsewhere. I hope it fits.”

 

Sansa nodded and attempted to unlace the back of her dress.

 

“Can you help me?”

 

“You don’t need to try it on here, you can-”

 

“It’s not going to unlace itself, my lord,” she said stubbornly. When he hesitated, Sansa whipped her auburn plait around and gave a stern look until he came to assist her. His fingers were gentle with the laces; he had done this many times before. When the laces dropped to the floorboards, Sansa pushed the dress from her shoulders and turned to face him in her linen underdress.

 

“I hope it fits me,” she said, placing his hand on her breast, “I’m not a little girl anymore.”

 

Petyr furrowed his brow and, out of curiosity, wove his fingers beneath the fabric, palming the supple breast and hardened nipple.

 

“So it seems,” he said, in a low voice. Sansa smiled to herself; he was finally caving in.

 

“I've... made you hard again, haven't I?” she asked, despite already knowing the answer.

 

“That you have, Sansa,” he said, looking down awkwardly. Then with a sudden outburst of adrenaline and lust he said, “Now be a good girl and kneel beside the bed for me.”

 

No questions asked, Sansa sat pretty beside the bed and watched as he sat on the quilts next to her. Although it was now too late to go back, she now wondered whether she really wanted to play this game. With the knowledge of what Petyr was asking, she began to feel rather unclean and uncomfortable.

 

“Have you done this before?” he asked. Sansa blushed, embarrassed of her innocence. Littlefinger did not wait for an answer. His heart was beating fast – sex with a thousand virgins could not compare to this. The dark coat he wore now lay behind him on the bed, and he asked Sansa to undo his undergarments. When she had done so, he held her chin up to the tip of his penis, which she sucked on tentatively.

 

“Good girl,” he said softly, his hand guiding her head down further. Admittedly this was not the most skillful oral sex he had ever received, but it was by far the most enjoyable. His member was soaking wet when she pulled off to look at him with her icy blue eyes. _Catelyn’s eyes,_ he thought.

 

“Did I ask you to stop?” he said, sternly. Sansa was aware that she had done this to herself but she felt like crying. It felt so wrong, so dishonourable and unseemly, yet here she was in his cabin, feeling slightly moist between the legs. She felt unclean for wanting him so.

 

“I’m sorry,” she said, frowning down at his boots. Tears were starting to well up in her eyes. She couldn’t do it. Petyr sighed.

 

“Are you playing games with me, Miss Stark?” he asked sternly. When she did not reply, he grabbed her by the arm and hauled her over his lap, flipping her skirt up to reveal her behind. “I don’t like it when people waste my time.”

 

He spanked her and she let out a cry. The red welt in her pale skin stung, but the sensation only made her wetter.

 

“What do you think Cersei would do if she knew that you'd killed her son?” He spanked her again.

 

“Ow!” she squealed, “But I did nothing! It was you!”

 

“You provided the poison, remember?” he said, smirking, “You are not as innocent as you think.”

 

Sansa thought about this for a moment, and then wept into his pillow as he continued to punish her. She felt exposed – her maidenhead had not even been taken yet she already felt used and impure. When he slipped his fingers between her legs she knew her final fragments of dignity had truly left her. When he let out a quiet groan she knew what he had felt.

 

“Why do you cry, Sansa?” he asked, looking down at his glistening fingers, “You’re soaking.”

 

Suddenly Sansa began to fill with rage. She had so badly wanted to outsmart him, to manipulate him and beat him at his own game, but her innocence and unexpected feelings had let her down at the last minute. 

 

“I can’t help wanting you!” she yelled, punching the mattress.

 

Petyr’s face beamed with satisfaction. He had won.

 

Despite this, he still had too much honour to strip her of her virginity. He aimed to do something similar, though. Petyr stood her up and bent her over the bed, sliding himself between her thighs. Sansa squirmed as his manhood rubbed against her; it felt good even though he was not inside her. When she began to moan, he began to echo with signs of his own enjoyment. He thrusted into her for a while like this, hoping that nobody was listening outside the door.

 

“Petyr, I…” she said after a while, unable to finish her sentence. Littlefinger knew he was stimulating her to the point of orgasm, so her stopped teasing and eased two fingers inside of her. Almost instantly, she crumpled over in pleasure; Petyr had to hold her up by the waist with his spare arm while she moaned into the pillows. As he watched his fingers relieve her of days of sexual tension, Petyr found himself with a sudden inability to control himself. Abandoning all his morals, Petyr grabbed her by the waist with both hands and thrust into her hard and fast. She cried out – partly in pain, partly in pleasure.

 

“I’m sorry Sansa,” he said. Beads of sweat were forming on his brow and his breath was heavy. “I can’t stop myself.”

 

It was not long before he reached his own climax, though he made sure to release himself onto her back instead – he owed her that much. For a long time they lay there on the bed silently, half naked. The sky was now a deep purple and was filled with the pale, white light of the moon, which made the cabin feel cold and empty. Littlefinger realised this and lit a few candles around the room.

 

Sansa felt the warm dent he had left in the bed; she wanted him to stay. For some reason she could not shake this strong sense of attachment that was unfolding inside her mind. Now that he had taken her maidenhead this was only going to get worse. Petyr did not come back to the bed after he had finished with her, he merely sat at his desk scribbling down things that she did not care for. The soft scratching sounds of the black-feathered quill made her rather sleepy after a while, so she rolled over and curled up inside the coat he had left on the bed.

 

“Please don’t leave me,” she whispered, knowing he was too busy to listen.


	3. Broken Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the Eyrie, Petyr feels confused by the sentiment behind Sansa's testimony.

Petyr stood over the moon door, watching as Lysa’s falling body became smaller and smaller until it disappeared into the mountainous landscape below.

 _He killed her,_ Sansa thought, still in shock. Apart from the whistling of the wind that came in waves through that dreadful hole in the door, the great hall was deathly quiet. Sansa lay on the floor, staring in stunned silence at Littlefinger’s feet, which were only a few mere inches from the door. Her head still stung from her aunt’s vicious behaviour, but all she could think about was Petyr’s violent unpredictability. First Joffrey, then Dontos, now her aunt – she wondered if she could be next, if his promises of safety were nothing more than cruel lies. No matter how many times she satisfied his lust, Sansa knew that the only true means of safety was his heart.

“Sansa,” he said, kneeling beside her, “Are you hurt?”

Although Sansa had many things to say, the words had escaped her. Petyr’s grey-green eyes studied Sansa as she sat in stupor, staring at the moon door. When Sansa eventually opened her mouth to speak, she was interrupted by the heavy footsteps of a dozen Eyrie guards.

 

***   *   ***

 

_I had no friends in King’s Landing… except one. He **saved** me._

The words played over and over in Petyr’s mind ever since she had given her testimony. He glanced over at the plate of food on the table; it had gone cold. Several hours had passed but Petyr had been unable to focus on anything, or even eat his dinner. The fact of the matter was, Sansa had lied - and for _him_. He thought that it was most likely because it was more logical to lie, though he clung onto the small possibility that her reasoning lay deeper. With a sigh, Petyr drained his glass of wine and left his chamber.

“Yes?” said Sansa, when Petyr knocked on her door. She was sat on her bed, sewing calmly, as if it were any old evening, as if nothing had happened at all. Petyr found this deeply annoying. He wanted to shake her by the shoulders and have her tell him that she loved him. For the past year he had reasoned with himself: _Surely if I can’t have Catelyn, I can have Sansa._ But alas, he remained the man that could never get the love he so deeply desired.

“Why did you help me?” he said, eyes burning into her.

“They would have thrown you through the moon door if they found you guilty,” she replied, bluntly.

Petyr clenched his jaw, wishing she would look at him instead of her sewing. He spoke through his teeth, trying to mask his annoyance. “That’s not an answer.”

Still refusing to look at him, Sansa rephrased her previous statement. “If they’d executed you, what would they have done with me?”

“I don’t know,” he said, frustrated now.

“Neither do I,” she said.

“Better to gamble on the man you know than the strangers you don’t,” he said. Petyr licked his lips, and his eyes gleamed, a subtle sign that he had found a fresh new angle of manipulation. “And you think you know me?” he asked.

“I know what you want.”

“Do you?”

And there it was. The words that made Lady Stark look up from her sewing. The room felt awfully silent as his question hung in the air. He could see her blue eyes staring back at him from the other end of the room, unable to answer his question, for he had made her question herself.

“Well, I thought you’d made it... quite evident what you wanted… in your cabin last week,” she said, stumbling over her words.

Petyr laughed, glad that she still held the memory dear.

“No.”

Placing her unfinished sewing onto the dressing table, Sansa scowled at him. “No? What is it then?”

“Sansa,” he started, in gentle tones. With a heavy sigh, he sat down next to her on the bed. “Last week, when we made love in my cabin-”

“Love?” she interrupted. The wind was whistling through the bedroom window quite noticeably now; Petyr stormed over and slammed it shut.

“Yes,” he said, giving her a cold stare. “When we made _love_ in my cabin, you asked to stay there in my bed – you begged me not to leave you alone again. Why?”

Sansa began to chew on her lip nervously, unsure of the correct response. “You… you’re a good friend to me. My only friend… I just-”

“Friend?!” he said, his voice not too far from a shout. Clenching his fist, Petyr wanted to hurt something so badly. It just so happened that the only thing he could not bring himself to hurt was sitting right in front of him.

Petyr began to pace back and forth across the room, his breath heavy. For a moment, Sansa thought she could hear hushed whispers outside the door – perhaps the Eyrie guards could hear. For all the years she had known him, Sansa had never seen Petyr act like this. It was beginning to scare her.

“Don’t you feel more than friendship, Sansa?” he asked desperately.

“Lord Baelish… please - calm down!”

“Answer me!” he demanded, standing over her, hoping to intimidate.

All of a sudden Sansa wished he would leave. The anxious knot in her stomach had returned for the first time since the Purple Wedding, and she did not like it at all. “Please stop shouting! Look, it’s been a long day – perhaps you should get some rest.”

At that, Petyr could hold back his emotions no longer. He had finally cracked. Tears began to well up in his eyes, and his voice began to waver uncontrollably.

“Why don’t you love me?” he cried. Years of pent up feelings were spilling out into the open now, his dignity lost, his secrets exposed. For as long as he could remember he had only ever wanted to earn Catelyn’s love – he had sought to prove himself to her, to become one of the richest men in the land in the hope that maybe one day she would find him worthy of her. Now she was gone his world  had turned to darkness. At first he thought this would consume him. Everything was right again when he realised that Sansa just might be able to light that deep darkness. She was not Catelyn by any stretch of the imagination, but he wanted her for good.

“Love you?” Sansa said, genuinely taken aback.

At that moment Petyr realised that Sansa must think herself a plaything to him. Their sexual encounter had meant nothing more than empty pleasure and friendly company to her. Distraught, he thrust out his hand, knocking a vase off the bedside table. It shattered into a thousand pieces on the stone floor, its pieces glinting in the evening light.

“How can you play with me like that, hm?” he said, grabbing her face in his hand, his bony fingertips digging into her cheeks. “You knew what you were doing. You knew I loved you, and you encouraged me. How could you think that all I wanted was your body? Answer me!”

“You’re hurting me!”

Before the situation could escalate any further, Lord Yohn Royce was at Littlefinger’s side, prising his fingers off Sansa’s face.

“Remove your hand from her at once!” he ordered, seizing Littlefinger by both arms and pulling him a few feet backwards. “Are you quite alright Lady Sansa?” he asked.

“Yes, I…” Sansa looked at Petyr, who was beginning to sob quietly. “I’m fine. Lord Baelish is still very upset about my aunt Lysa. It’s been hard for us all. Perhaps you could help him back to his chamber?”

Royce looked at Sansa, and then Petyr. The whole situation seemed rather suspicious to him, but after a moment’s thought he nodded and began to lead Petyr back through the door. Littlefinger sobbed loudly as he did so, reluctant to leave.

His tear filled eyes looked desperate – he knew that he could not say anything in front of Royce, but Sansa knew he was calling out to her in this moment – begging her for things that she was unsure she could give.

Then the door clicked shut. On the floor were a few wet marks where his teardrops had fallen.

 _This is not a game,_ Sansa told herself. The man that had been so bold to save her, the man that had killed the king – she had broken him. Before this whole ordeal she would have laughed at the thought of having this much power over him. Now that it was in her hands she felt terrible, and not at all sure she wanted to use it.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
